


run rabbit, run

by necroglitz



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Gun Violence, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23903620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necroglitz/pseuds/necroglitz
Summary: An elderly farmer discovers Jim and another survivor stealing crops from his garden. To solve his pest problem, he resorts to his gun.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	run rabbit, run

**Author's Note:**

> this song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_SaJyluLP5s gave me tarsus vibes. so here :)

“Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run.  
Bang, bang, bang, bang goes the farmer's gun.  
Don't give the farmer his fun, fun, fun.  
He'll get by without his rabbit pie.”

-0-

Stealing was the only way to stave off starvation. Those fortunate enough to have evaded Governor Kodos’ selection were now the survivors’ personal pantry to take from. Of course, no one wanted grotty children to steal their crops and rummage their cupboards, especially when even the fortunate were running low on stock, too. Sometimes they set up booby traps to ensnare the misfortunate thieves. Jim had lost a few group members due to traps. Either the trap itself would painfully bleed the life out of the poor thing as if it were vermin seeking scraps, or the house owner would call the authorities to come put the kid down like a savage dog. Jim had been saved the trauma of watching his friends get killed, but he had overheard it. Countless times. The sound of dying friends would keep him awake for hours until the warm shine of the sun would peek over the horizon. The gruesome screams of children, much younger than him, being torn apart by phasers (set to kill) or police dogs with murder trained into them. The shrill shrieks of torment and terror as the lives they have tried so hard to keep are ripped away from them in an instant, no mercy given to them by no Gods. The only beings that watched the carnage from above were the hungry vultures that fed on the corpses of slaughtered children.

There were never any Gods. Jim only understood that when there was no God to fed him and kept him safe from the men with guns and piercing red eyes. 

If there was a God, Jim wouldn’t have thought twice about it if he was punished for stealing from an old farmer’s garden. The crops appeared to be poorly attended to, but anything of any quality was adequate. The sensation of dry wheat and crusty vegetables under his sore palms was just as satisfying as eating it. To have food, was to have life. However, according to the laws of the cruel universe, food could also mean certain death.

Jim and his younger friend jumped nearly seven foot as the thunderous roar of a rifle erupted into the still air. A bullet whipped past them, digging deep into the dirt beside Jim’s thigh. He felt like a rabbit in a farmer’s garden. A hungry, frightened little rabbit with a gun pointed at his little rabbit head.

“Run!” He had yelled at his younger friend, pushing him up and out of the trajectory of the next bullet. They bolted from the garden, but the farmer was in hot pursuit behind them, screaming obscenities and shooting madly with his old-fashioned carbine.

Jim caught a glimpse of the old man as he snuck a look over his shoulder. His skin clung to his bones like the flesh of rotten fruit, his legs looked as if they would snap like twigs with each step, and his eyes were fierce with a passionate hunger Jim had only seen in wolves.

The two young boys felt as if they had been running forever. The farmer behind them was relentless, fuelled by a repugnant hatred that boiled in his chest like coal in a steam engine. Jim was exhausted. He had been for months. His body was tired, hungry, craving energy and nutrition that were simply nowhere to be found. He wondered how the old man could run for so long and felt a pang of jealousy. 

“Jim,” was the last thing Jim heard before a booming noise struck his eardrums, followed by a scream. 

The last bullet in the farmer’s rifle had buried itself into the abdomen of Jim’s little friend, sending him plummeting to the ground with a haunting thud. He cried out in pain and reached for Jim with clawing paws, but the blonde boy found himself torn between hauling his friend into his arms or leaving him to die. 

Jim was physically weak. His bones were brittle from malnutrition. He had no meat on his bones. There were no winning scenarios if he attempted to carry his friend to safety. They would both die, instead.

His younger friend, who was only seven years of age, was crawling towards him like the undead, a trail of red staining the yellow grass beneath his body. Tears split from his big, pleading eyes, begging to be saved. Desperate to go home and finally have a feed, even if it was only a few bites. He screamed out Jim’s name, wailing and thrashing to reach him and grab him and hold him, just to know he wasn’t going to die here.

“JIM! Don’t leave me, please! Please don’t leave me! I’m scared, Jim!”

Jim felt like he was going to hurl.

The farmer caught up to them. He slammed his boot down onto the child’s back, a cruel laugh erupting from his mouth as the kid released a frightened yelp.

“JIM!”

_I’m so sorry._

“I haven’t had fresh meat in months!” The farmer cheered jovially, shaking his gun in the air as if to thank the gods in the sky that allowed him to feed. “A nice, warm rabbit pie sure does sound scrumptious right about now.”

Jim was dizzy. Blood was rushing in his ears, deafening him with a droning cacophony of anxiety and repulsion. The world was spinning, but the old man’s face remained lucid.

“I’ll give yer a chance to run, blondie,” the old man said with a filthy sneer. The blackened bags under his eyes were pits, giving his black eyes a sunken look. The wrinkles in his skin were so deep Jim could have mistaken them for gashes. So old, and so evil. His black heart was withering inside his chest. Jim could smell the stench of death clinging to him.

Jim heard his friend scream again. He was in pain. The man was squashing him under his boot. The wound was bleeding out. The little child was being tortured. And for what reason? Because he was hungry. 

His name was Eric. He was seven. He was born on Tarsus IV. His home was tall wheat fields, crops and hot summer days. A farm boy, just like Jim.

“Rabbit.”

Jim stared at the cruel farmer.

“Run, rabbit. Run.”

And the rabbit ran.


End file.
